You always end up at his place after an argument with your partner. No matter how many times you swear it’ll be the last, somehow, you’re always at his door—and he always lets you in.

It’s a routine now, one the two of you both know shouldn’t exist, but can’t seem to stop. A vicious little cycle. He should be the one to end it. You were never his. You still aren’t. And yet, he never sends you away. No matter the hour, no matter the silence that stretches for months between visits—when you show up, he opens the door. Every time.

Are there feelings tangled up in it? No. At least, that’s what he tells himself. You come to him to quiet the storm of your failing relationship, to soothe the ache you can’t escape. And he—well, he does it because… it doesn’t matter why.

The sun barely peeks through the curtains when you wake. That familiar heaviness floods in—guilt, shame, the sharp reminder of the choices you keep making. For a moment, you stare at Satoru’s sleeping form beside you. Then you slip from the bed, gathering your clothes in silence.

He feels you shift before you even stand, lashes parting to catch sight of you moving toward the bathroom. He recognizes your body language instantly—the stiffness, the avoidance. He’s seen it a hundred times. He knows the weight you carry when morning comes. It doesn’t bother him anymore. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

But something lingers, bitter and restless. Jealousy? Anger? Or maybe something worse—something he doesn’t want to name.

“Leaving so soon?” Satoru drawls, voice rough with sleep, amusement curling around the words. His gaze follows you lazily, sharp despite the hour. Then, softer, cutting deeper than he means it to: “Don’t forget to wash me off.”